


ripe for the picking

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: trampled underfoot and squashed into wine [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eloping to Essos, F/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sansa-centric, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Theon and Sansa in hiding, Theon rescues Sansa from the Lannisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Sansa and Theon hide out in Lorath after escaping King's Landing during the bread riots. Sansa is falling in love with her unlikely hero, but Theon seems indifferent to her. She feels like a burden, and wonders how she can convince him to see her as more than Robb's silly sister.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa inhaled deeply. She was still stunned by the clean, salt-scented air, so fresh and revitalizing after the close, humid heat of King’s Landing, and the thick scent of roses badly masking the stench of shit from the cities’ over-crowed, filth-encrusted streets. Her eyes were closed as she breathed in, in an attempt to convince herself that the cool air held the snowy pine scent of the North. But the caw of the gulls and the coarse yells of the fishermen would not allow her to fool herself into believing it. The sea breeze picked up her loose yellow skirts, letting the gauzy fabric flutter about her ankles as her hair did the same about her ears. Though the rolling mists kept the coast cool, Essos was as hot and exotic as Sansa had always been told.

She sighed out her exhale, and opened her eyes to assess the thick build-up of fluffy clouds in the rapidly dimming sky.

“We should return to the inn,” said her companion, “It looks like to rain, and the day’s eve draws near.”

Sansa allowed herself one last moment of blessed peace before they rejoined the bustle of streets as the workers of the city were returning home. They had lingered overlong after making their purchases, at her request. Sansa was reveling in her newly acquired freedom at every opportunity, and was loathe to give it up, if only for the confines of their shared room at The Insolent Mule.

At her side, Theon offered her a look of gentle commiseration, as if he knew of the reasons behind her reluctance, though she had spoken little of her time in the Red Keep. Whining, self-pitying words danced on the tip of her tongue, a plea for ten minutes more. But she knew Theon was right. They did not have so many clothes that they could afford for her second-nicest dress to be soiled with mud if they were caught in the rain. Being out after dark was an invitation to be set upon by thieves or other vandals. They had little wealth between them now, and could not afford to lose a scrap of it.

Sansa had been enquiring at the houses of wealthy merchants, those with many children who might need require a tutor for their daughters. Many men made regular trips to the ports of Westeros, and hoped for their daughters to wed into the lowly yet rising Houses. Those masterly Houses which required the fat dowry a merchant could provide to prosper. Sansa had little to offer in terms of trade, save her stellar education. She was a skilled seamstress, but they did not have the funds to buy the materials required yet, and Sansa would need a space in which to display her work. The tiny room she shared with Theon was not good enough for the type of clientele she would need to attract. Sansa despaired when they first arrived, that they had moved from the colourful, engaging Braavos with its mummers and canal-boats to a pit of hovels. The bleak city of Lorath was deceptive, its half-ruined labyrinthine grey stone streets belied by the rich velvet wall-hangings and plush carpets found in the homes of the powerful velvet merchants.

So far Sansa had only the one engagement in the house of one such man. She was engaged to teach Westerosi styles of dance and songs to a pair of twin girls. They were flippant, irritating creatures, more concerned with gossiping and giggling amongst themselves than heeding Sansa’s words. If her aching stomach did not depend upon it, Sansa might have lost her temper and stormed out in fury the first day. Or the young version of her might; the girl of Winterfell who had stormed off in a strop whenever Arya’s rough play had spoiled her finery. 

Sansa was horribly reminded of the naïve and spiteful girl she had been, when she watched the twins jape. Sansa and Jeyne had been much the same, plotting and laughing amongst themselves, excluding others like Arya simply because they could. But Sansa was not that carefree, self-centered girl any longer, nor would she be again. The harsh lessons of court had taught her never to be flippant. She paid better attention to people’s speech, and the darker meanings they concealed with it. Sansa was now equipped to sense that Theon was nervous about lingering too long at the stormy coastline as the heavy clouds rolled in, and so she did not protest.

Silently, they walked on aching feet back to the gimy inn they called home. The Insolent Mule was the best they could afford for lodgings; Theon made a better wage than Sansa, working as a man-at-arms for soft, rich men who had need to travel to the more sour streets of the city, and performing errands at the docks. He had spoken of making better money as a deckhand, working his way through the command upon a ship, but Sansa had protested at that. For Theon to work at sea would require for her to be left alone, and that she would not abide. Theon had saved her, and she felt safe with him close by.

Immediately after Princess Mrycella had been shipped off from the harbor at Blackwater Bay, the smallfolk had revolted over their lack of food. Joffrey had called for their mass execution and it had been anarchy after that. Sansa would never forget the feel of dirty, unwashed hands tearing at her stockings and smallclothes, before Theon had plunged his sword through the back and out the belly of her attacker. Sansa thought Theon looked like the Warrior himself, blood-splatted and panting above her prone body, as she lay dazed in the straw, her legs still splayed uncouthly. Her heart had been hammering in terror, and then for another reason altogether; because of a burst of hope, the first she had felt in many moons. Sandor Clegane had been right to call her a caged bird, but from the moment Theon took her pale, trembling hand in his own, she was determined to be free.

Braavos was not far enough; the Queen had too much influence over everyone that travelled to and from King’s Landing, and Sansa had heard her speak of the Iron Bank before. It would not be difficult for the Queen to send men across the water to look for her. Sansa was sure the goldcloaks had ravaged the port in an effort to be rewarded upon her safe return to her cage. 

Lorath was not their final destination, but it was as far as they would afford to travel with the coin Theon had managed to get for Sansa’s necklace and the slender silver hairpins she had been wearing that day. Sansa was surprised by how unbothered she was to see them gone. They were presents from the Queen, gaudy baubles displayed Sansa to distract the court from her bruised body. From a distance, she would seem like a treasured guest and a well-cared for hostage, rather than the prisoner she was in truth. She was certain that was partly why so many stayed clear of her, so they could convince themselves the pained smiles she wore were genuine. Sansa did not have to fake smiles for Theon. She had tried to hide her pain from him at first, until he gave her a grimace rather than a smile, and told her to stop her fake cheer.

“The Northmen hated my fake smiles,” he said, “Because they could not understand why I japed in unsuitable moments. But while you are prisoner, you must always smile and say the correct words, mustn’t you, Princess?”

“I’m not-” Sansa started, before swallowing back her denial.

Theon told her Robb had been crowned King in the North, and Theon had sworn himself to the Northern cause. Sansa was a Princess now, if only in his eyes.

“No, here you’re not a princess, and I’m not my father’s heir,” he said bitterly, “You’re a seamstress and I’m a sellsword. So there’s no cause for fake smiles, is there. We’re smallfolk now, and smallfolk know better than to smile at all.”

The dead tone of his words had chilled Sansa then, and they still upset her to think on them now. She had been forced to proclaim she was loyal, and a traitor’s daughter, and tainted by her Stark blood. Sansa had no desire to wear another cloak of falsehood. But it was necessary, to keep them both safe.

It too less time than she would have guessed, for Sansa not to bristle at being addressed roughly, as ‘you, girl,’ or ‘wench’. Sansa had always been a lady, always afforded the utmost respect in her father’s household. Even in King’s Landing, she had commanded the attention of her maids and the castle servants. She had never been overlooked before. Now, men only looked at her to leer, and women with jealousy over her soft skin and shiny hair. Years of regular, good food could not be disguised, and no one believed their lies that they were simple peasants. 

Theon had been forced to ‘admit’ another lie about them, claiming Sansa was the daughter of a man he had been in service to – mostly the truth. The fabrication was that she and Theon were both from lowly houses. Theon was supposedly a guardsman who had eloped with his lord’s daughter. The cruel lord had tried to marry Sansa off to an old lech, of a more wealthy and powerful house, so they had run. It was a simple enough story to remember. Theon and Sansa were thus young newlyweds, who had fled to Essos for love. That they were not riotously happy was only due to their worry at being discovered, and lamenting the loss of their fictional siblings.

Sansa swallowed thickly, her throat stiff whenever she thought of Arya, lost and likely dead, and Robb, risking his life each day he opposed the wrathful Lannisters. She longed for the loving embrace of her mother, who must be worried sick over both her daughters. There was nothing they could do to assuage their worries. Any message they sent was likely to be intercepted by Cersei’s agents of whispers. And Balon Greyjoy had broken faith with the rest of the Kingdoms, and was ravaging the North. For the love he bore him, Robb had set Theon free. The other Northmen had been clamouring for his execution when the Ironborn had begun to attack their homes. For this debt, Theon had vowed to save Sansa, to grant another freedom, as he had been gifted.

Sansa understood her place beside Theon once he had informed her of this. She was a burden, the debt he owed to his King. Theon remained at her side out of duty, caring for her and sharing his hard-earned coin from risking his life in the tangled back-streets, or moving back-breaking cargo from ship to shore. She was the reason he couldn’t earn a better wage, aboard a ship as was the natural home for an Ironborn man, or by joining a sellsword company, gaining allies and the security of comrades. 

Sansa kept him shackled to the menial jobs of the city, and she would not make him resent her further for it, by complaining. She endeavored to be the Maiden in flesh, sweet and accommodating, no matter how irritating he could be in close quarters. Sansa knew her life depended on Theon’s love for Robb. If he ever decided she was no longer worth the trouble and abandoned her for a better opportunity elsewhere, she would be forcibly wed within the sennight, or else raped to death. Theon was her only safety now, the only knight who had been brave enough to risk invading the capital to save her. No matter his reasons, Theon had saved her, and it was a debt to large for her to ever even the scales.


	2. Chapter 2

“Good haul today,” said Theon, dumping his bounty upon their tiny wobbly table.

Sansa felt her tired body zing with the lightness of joy, her eyes gleaming as she took in the basket of fruits Theon had brought her. A bushel of oranges and a small mountain of lychees. She clasped her hands together with a joyful lurch as she hurried over.

“However did you afford so many?” she asked excitedly.

She plucked up the red-skinned fruit, making quick work of the skin to pop the white berry into her eager mouth. Theon watched her with a satisfied smirk on his face.

“I killed a deadly scorpion beside the seller’s feet, and he gave me two punnets for the coin of one, and the oranges for free.”

Sansa beamed, proud.

“Kes from the kitchens said her best jam comes from a mix of lychee and blueberry. If I exchange some of these berries for sugar, she might show me where the blueberry bushes are.”

“Mind you come find me when you learn,” Theon warned her, “I’ll not have you wandering alone-“

He broke off his speech to yawn hugely. Sansa hurried around the table to encourage him to his seat, fussing over him as though he were her husband for true. Theon did not object to her cosseting. He slumped gratefully, when Sansa presented him with the bowl of soup. She had ordered it up from the kitchens, when she had caught sight of him lumbering up the street from the docks, with the other daily labourers.

One-handed, Theon fumbled for his day’s wages, placing the coin on the table with a chink. Sansa beamed at the shining coppers.

“We almost have enough for real lodging of our own now,” she said, “There’s a little house with a blue door, with rooms advertised. I enquired and she says there’s one room left, top floor but we’d probably be the youngest residents so that’s fair.”

“Sansa,” Theon chided, “You asked without me?”

“I am your lady wife,” she said, “To all about us, at least. A wedded woman conducts such business.”

“Does she?” Theon said in a teasing tone.

Sansa nodded primly, and smiled at his playfully saucy look. Theon chuckled and nodded. Sansa was pleased that he trusted her to have had chosen somewhere sound for them to settle more permanently, as they raised the funds to travel ever East.

Sansa had protested when she first realised the ship Theon had procured passage upon, was headed across the Narrow Sea, and not for the North. She had wanted to join Robb; to be escorted home to her mother, and little brothers. Theon had then enlightened her to the facts of the war. From the Crownlands to the Riverlands was crawling with Lannister men, like ‘lice upon a sheep’, in his words. Joffrey would send the Goldcloaks up the Kingsroad to find Sansa, and Cersei would send spies everywhere else. Off the carved paths, large groups of bandits roamed, hunting folk for their treasures. The Riverlands had been churned into a sea of mud watered with blood. The Mountain had decimated the smallfolk villages and farms. To the East, her Aunt Lysa had refused to declare for the North or Lannisters, barring the way to the Eryie to both factions of the war. It was unwise to travel along the coast there, lest some enterprising minor House should capture Sansa. The might ransom her to Cersei, if Robb could not provide enough coin for her worth.

It was safer for everyone, if Sansa and Theon remained in the wind, keeping their ears open for news of the war. If Robb won - _when_ Robb avenged Father’s death and won the North’s freedom - then they could return home. Sansa’s first imaginings when they arrived in Braavos, was of a future where she could go back to Winterfell, and live in peace, until she was old enough to marry. She had been a silly, naïve girl, too young to be betrothed, without any understanding of the treachery of deceivers. The next time, she would rely more on her mother’s judgement, and wait to see more of the character of the man.

But as the days went by, and they joined a caravan of travellers heading to Lorath, Sansa’s thoughts of home dwindled. Winterfell seemed like a half-remembered dream some days, when she was sweeping and scrubbing the sills and floor of their room, because the maids were too slovenly to do an adequate job. Sansa still missed her mother and brothers and murdered father, with a horrible ache. But the sting was lessened each day of drudgery, as she dressed herself in the early hours to beg for darning work, and Theon looked for any work at all. Their world of fellows and acquaintances had narrowed to the two of them, and the young family they had befriended in the caravan, who had settled nearby.

Their friends, Maliq and Shoshana, had moved from Pentos to Braavos. But Shoshana’s family were originally from Lorath, and since her parents and brothers had all died, she longed to connect with her far-flung relatives from her father’s homeland. After the birth of their third child, they had begun saving the funds to travel safely to Lorath. Sansa and Shana, as she preferred to be called, had become friends on the long journey. Though Theon was quieter than Sansa remembered, he seemed to get along with the boisterous Maliq well enough.

Once they were settled in Lorath, Shana had enthusiastically introduced Sansa to her newfound cousins. She sweetly suggested that someday Sansa and Theon might have a son, that could marry her only daughter, the charming Aliandra. Sansa was unexpectedly pleased by the suggestion. Sansa never dreamed it could be possible that she found greater friendship with a woman of the smallfolk, than with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, who had once feigned sweetness toward her. But Sansa soon found her friend’s jolly nature was infectious, for being unfeigned. The woman was unfalteringly bright and optimistic. Shana refused to allow grim faces in her presence. She was plump from three pregnancies, with a large bosom, wide smile and booming laugh. She covered her golden-brown hair with a thin veil, which hung from pins at the crown of her head, like a Riverlander brides’ veil. It was the fashion in Pentoshi circles, and Sansa had been thrilled when her new friend gifted her a pale mauve veil of her own, to keep her hair from being whipped up by the wind.

One morning, Sansa walked sedately in the cool of early morning to the residence of her friend. Shana had been lucky to have a wealthy enough family, butchers by trade, who had a large house with spare rooms for her family to live in. Her visit being expected and anticipated joyfully, Shana was waiting on the doorstep for Sansa. She began to wave vigorously when she caught sight of Sansa's distinctive red hair.

“Greetings, my dear friend!” Shana called out, her youngest son Lysero on her hip.

Sansa wished her a good morn, and they exchanged kisses upon the cheek. The ever-shy Lysero tucked his face into his mother when Sansa neared, nervous. Sansa only smiled indulgently at this behaviour, used to the reaction.

“You will have your own child soon enough,” said Shana with a fond smile, as she caught sight of Sansa’s adoring gaze.

Sansa blushed, knowing Shana expected Theon and Sansa to be laying together. Shana only laughed at what she saw as Sansa’s prudish nature, not knowing her younger, foreign friend was still a maiden. They trailed through the manse together. The two women linked arms when Lysero squirmed to be put down, so he could toddle off on unsteady feet. He chased after his elder brother and sister, who were playing with a orange cat. Sansa and her friend settled in the garden, in the shade beneath the pergola, where grape vines twisted over their heads, heavy with fruit. Shana rang for tea, and they sipped delicately from their thin, porcelain cups.

Maliq was a potter by trade, and he made lovely bowls and cups for his wife, decorated with tiny roses and intricate vines. Maliq and Shoshana were not rich, nor were her kin, but they were comfortable. They were able to enjoy the use of tableware that would not look out of place in the Red Keep, because of his profession. Sansa wondered if she might suggest again to Theon to ask Maliq for work, though he was really far too old to begin an apprenticeship in a trade. Thus far, Theon had not wanted to tie himself into a profession that would keep him from the docks. There he could mingle with the local traders, and learn news of their homeland.

“What news have you for me?” enquired Shana, as though she could read that Sansa’s mind was turned toward gossip.

“Only a few trifles on Westerosi conflicts,” said Sansa, affecting a flippant air, “And my own ill-mannered complains of my charges.”

“Oh yes,” said Shana, who relished tales of bad behaviour, “Tell me what those horrid girls have been about now.”

And so they passed a pleasant morning in conversation and laughter. Sansa blushed again many times, fielding Shana’s more invasive questions about her supposed marriage to Theon. Sansa ignored the fluttering sensation in her stomach, when Shana mentioned how attentive and adoring Theon seemed. The older woman spoke again about their future children. Sansa had not before considered what a child of hers and Theon’s might be like. A babe with a riot of red curls, perhaps with Theon’s sea blue-green eyes. It was an amiable image, but a dream that could not be. Robb would need Sansa’s hand to remain a bargaining point, to secure his new alliances with.

With a tumble of wistful thoughts in her head, Sansa bid her friend goodbye just after luncheon. She had been prevailed upon to stay and eat with the household. Afterward, Shana had pushed a small basket of sweetbread, apples, ham and a little goat’s cheese into Sansa’s hands, despite her protests. Sansa might once have bristled at being looked upon as a charitable case for a smallfolk woman. But it was true that she now relied upon the charity of her friend, for the occasional extra parcel of food. Her meagre wage did not stretch to cover beyond a contribution toward their room’s fee. Theon paid for all else.

He returned home late that night, so late that Sansa worried that he might have been set upon, and she scolded him out of worry.

“Where have you been?” she demanded shrewishly.

“A late arrival,” Theon said, “And there was no need to turn down the extra coin. We’re not so well situated that I could send a messenger, Sansa. And after an extra couple hours of work, cannot a man enjoy a drink with his fellows?”

“You’ve been at the tavern?” said Sansa, high-pitched with incredulity. “While I waited here, worried you were dead in a ditch in the dark?”

Theon scowled at her, roughly unlacing his shirt. He no longer wore his doublet and cloak with any regularity. They were growing dust on a hook by the door, for the heat of Essos demanded many less layers.

“I stayed to earn us the coin we need, to survive!” Theon snapped, “Then because I need to befriend these men, so they will tell me when it is safe for us to return home! As usual, you make the issue all about yourself.”

“And as usual, you disregard the feelings of others, like the selfish pig you are,” Sansa said nastily, before she could stop herself.

Theon recoiled from her, stung by her words. A pit of regret lodged in Sansa’s throat, preventing her from apologising immediately.

“Selfish, is it?” Theon repeated slowly, “Selfish of me, was it, when I pledged to Robb that I would save you: despite having no idea how to scale the Red Keep and find you? Even though your brother set me free, having made no such demand of me? I could just as easily have returned to the Iron Islands, and forgotten all about you! Silly, self-centred Sansa Stark, without a sensible thought in her head, who was so busy believing that pretty songs were true, that she didn’t even notice what a vicious prick her betrothed was, until he cut off her father’s head!”

Sansa let out a whimper, ashamed because it was true. Despite how badly Joffrey and the Queen had behaved on the road South, she had refused to see the truth until it was too late.

Theon swallowed audibly after his outburst, clearly regretful. Sansa knew it was easy to be harsh when you were fatigued from a full day walking about, let alone lifting heavy crates that Theon did, daily. It had helped him build a more solid frame than he had at Winterfell as a lithe youth, but it was exhausting work.

“Forgive me, Sansa-” he began, sagging out of his defensive, incensed posture.

“There’s no need, you spoke the truth,” Sansa admitted.

“No, I was abominably rude,” Theon said sheepishly.

Sansa nodded, but whether she was agreeing, or convincing herself to admit to her own flaws, she did not know.

“I have been sheltered from the world, its true,” she said, “I was always encouraged to be a lady, to sing sweet songs and be genteel. I was never like Arya, curious and energetic, running about and discovering the truth of things for myself. I believed that all princes were charming and all peasants were uncouth; all bastards plotting, and all prisoners not to be trusted. But none of that was true.

“Joffrey was a monster, and Shoshana is worth a hundred of him. Jon was always good and kind, and you have proven to be more loyal and brave than even my brother, and his troops. Robb could have sent any small force to hide out in the city, and try to rescue me, but he didn’t. You saved me, and I owe you my life, and my honour to your quick actions that day.”

“Sansa-“

“Of course, you should enjoy a drink with your new companions,” she said sensibly. “I will endeavour to be more peaceable.”

Sansa turned away from him then, and climbed onto the straw pallet they shared, facing the far wall. She closed her eyes and pretended to fall immediately asleep, as Theon cursed under his breath and began to shuffle about, undressing and washing away the grime of the day. Sansa ignored the single tear that dribbled down her cheek. She was glad to be proven correct. Any idea of babes with Theon, of a real future with him, was just an idle, child’s fantasy. He would never see her as more than a silly girl, with a head full of nonsense.


	3. Chapter 3

The fire was running low. The fading glow cast Theon’s features into harsh relief. Sansa was watching him from the corner of her eye. It was easier than looking at him boldly, when he was using the bowl of water she had first used, to wash the muck of work from his stomach and shoulders. Once she would have been horrified to be in the presence of a half-naked man. But they could not afford two rooms, and she could not expect Theon to strip in the hallway. She always politely turned her head or left the room entire, if he wanted to remove his breeches.

Without word, Sansa took the cloth from him and cleaned his back. It was extra pennies that they could not afford to have the maids wait upon them thus, with a real tin bath and oils. There were public bathhouses in the city, but Shana had cautioned her of the cheaper ones, where it was easy to catch infections upon the feet. Instead, she and Theon sat aside the funds to attend a middling one, once a month, for a real clean. They had decided to forgo such this month, when they were so close to achieving their goal.

Theon hummed gratefully as she passed the rags down his back. Sansa ignored the twitch of satisfaction it gave her, to be the one attending to his needs. She was not his mother, nor his maid. She should not be pleased to attend upon him. It was not ladylike. But Sansa had not been a lady the moment she set foot in Essos. She was Sansa of the smallfolk now.

“She’s rather pretty, the girl I saw you speaking to at the docks,” said Sansa.

Theon stiffened, incredulously; “What were you doing at the docks? It’s dangerous, Sansa, anyone could cart you off to a ship in a moment’s notice, and I would never know what had happened-”

“Calm yourself,” said Sansa, “I was not alone. Gero wanted his daughters to understand more of his business. He took them to the docks to see his shipment arrive. I merely helped to chaperone.”

“Oh,” said Theon, deflating.

“But your concern is noted,” said Sansa, “And I thank you for your counsel. I will not go there alone.”

“See that you don’t,” Theon grumbled, leaning back and relaxing again, as Sansa continued her work.

Theon had successfully managed to bury her unspoken question with his worry, but Sansa was too savvy to let it drop. After a long moment of removing the grime of the day's labour, and soothing his aching muscles, she spoke again.

“There’s nothing stopping you from courting a bride,” Sansa said, “If that’s what you’re looking for. Or- or other things.”

Theon turned to face her, bemused again. He gave Sansa such a look of confusion, and perhaps mild disgust, that she had to fight back the urge to step away from him and apologise. But Sansa had learnt a lot about the nature of men from Cersei Lannister. She knew that they were not all shining knights who wanted nothing more than to kiss their lady’s hand until after marriage.

“Are you giving me permission for a- a- mistress?” Theon spluttered, his face pale with shock.

Sansa refused to feel ashamed, as she stood clutching the rags that passed for a wash-cloth, feeling the suds running across her fists and dripping onto her skirts. Theon looked at her as though he did not know who she had become. But surely he must have noticed how she had changed? That she did not whine and complain to wear darned dressed when they ripped, nor pull faces at the quality of the food.

“I am not your wife,” said Sansa stoically, “And I know that men have… needs.”

“Drowned God!” Theon barked, scrubbing a hand across his stubbled cheeks, “That I should have lived to see the day _Sansa Stark_ spoke to me of men’s _needs_.”

Sansa bristled, unimpressed. She was not a green girl anymore. She had received her moonblood. She was a woman flowered, and had spent much time discussing mature women’s matters with Shona. If Theon had only seen her as Robb’s shrill little sister, it was about time the wool was pulled from his eyes, to introduce him to the young woman stood afore him.

“It is perfectly reasonable to expect that there are women,” said Sansa.

Theon became shuttered then.

“Aye, I suppose,” he muttered, before abruptly standing from the stool, lifting it up to kick aside the ragged sheet they placed below it, to keep the floor drier.

He stomped across the room to replace the stool at their wobbly table, and picked up his nightshirt. Sansa twitched, feeling as though she had wronged him somehow, with her suppositions. She replaced the wet rags into the now cool bowl of water.

“Are you cross with me?” said Sansa, “I only thought to say she was pretty, and that you might make a life with her when he return home-”

“If we return,” Theon snapped, “If the war goes our way, if the Lannisters don’t raze the North to ashes. Listen to yourself, Sansa! We might never return, haven’t you thought of that?”

“No,” said Sansa meekly, piteously.

Theon softened at that, and gathered her wet hands in his own. “No matter what the outcome is, I will protect you, I promise. I’m not going to be distracted by the harbourmaster’s daughter, or any other woman.”

She did not doubt it. He took his oath to Robb seriously. But suddenly their chaste life stretched out before her, years of waiting and saving, working and praying, only for the war to linger, then end unsatisfactorily, and the cause be taken up again in five or ten years time. Like the Blackfyre rebellions- always another contender just around the corner. And all the while they would waste away, in perpetuity, never marrying, never with children of their own. Sansa had always longed to be a mother.

“I’m sorry,” said Sansa, “I should not have pressed you. I did not mean to imply you were distracted from your duty.”

“It’s nothing,” said Theon, clearly hoping to commence with banking the fire so they could get some sleep.

“It’s not,” Sansa countered, “I suggested that a pretty face was all that you looked for in a wife.”

“Sansa,” said Theon, squeezing her damp hands again.

She reached up towards him on the tip of her toes, setting one such hand upon his cheek instead. He eyed her with confusion, which became alarm when she reached in closer, with soft puckered lips. Theon lurched away from her, horror writ large in the movement.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, “Robb would never forgive me. Your mother-”

“They aren’t here,” said Sansa, chasing him, so that they were close together once more.

Theon was breathing heavily, running his eyes over her, as though she might mould into a familiar shape, if only given the chance.

“The war might stretch endlessly,” Sansa reminded him, “As you said, we might live out our days here. Have we not proven we could make a life together, in relative peace? Are you not happy?”

“Sansa, it isn’t so simple, no matter how we might wish it to be,” said Theon, “Just because we name ourselves for smallfolk, doesn’t make it so. I am the heir to the Iron Islands. You’re a Northern Princess.”

“In Westeros,” she said, “Here we are Theomore and Sarra, and we might remain so, and have a good life.”

“Of poverty and hardship.”

Sansa shrugged, “A life. Of hope and laughter. Lorath is rather beautiful, in a bleak sort of way. We could make a real home here. Or keep going East.”

“You’re serious,” Theon breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Sansa chose to take advantage of that, launching once more onto the tips of her toes, throwing her arms about his neck. This time he did not back away when she kissed him. She was clumsy with inexperience, but after a moment of shocked stillness, Theon tilted her head and that was better. His mouth had routinely closed a little in anticipation of their lips meeting, and now he teased hers open with his tongue. Sansa moaned in unexpected delight at the feel of it, then whimpered as his tongue explored her mouth, while his hands came to stoke her back and her breasts though her nightshift.

The underdress was a loose material, loose enough for Theon to slip a hand beneath the collar and fondle her naked flesh. His bare skin was a furnace against her dampened night dress. Sansa broke away from the kiss, feeling overwhelmed as he moved his lips to her neck and pinched her nipple with his questing fingers. Her breast ached, unused to such treatment, but it was a good feeling. Sansa moaned, high and clear, as Theon began to worry at her neck with his teeth. Her fingers hand wound into Theon’s hair, and she tugged meanly in reply to his teeth at her throat and his sharp fingers sending hot flashes of pain and desire up from her nipples.

The nightshift tore with a comically loud rip, as Theon worked his hand too vigorously below it. It brought them to their senses momentarily. Theon stepped away from her, removing his mouth and hands from her person. Sansa stood panting, in awe of his sudden passion. Her breasts ached, no doubt bruised. Her skin was still soft white porcelain, unused to any rough treatment.

A dark look was beginning to form in Theon’s eyes, and with a sudden flash of clarity, Sansa knew he would begin brooding, and somehow convince himself he had wronged her. Waylaying that, she bravely grasped at the skirts of her underdress which she had re-purposed into a nightshift. She had it whipped up and over her head before Theon could protest.

Then Sansa stood before him, bare-breasted, in only her smallclothes. Theon whimpered, and wrapped a rough hand into her hair, jerking her head forwards into another forceful kiss. Sansa moaned at the feel of her abused breasts pressing against his hot skin. As Theon ran his hands all about her naked flesh, even skimming the ties of her smallclothes though he dared not unlace them, Sansa knew that nothing between them would ever be the same. And it pleased her. Winterfell was a distant dream, one that might yet come true. In the meantime, Sansa and Theon would live.


End file.
